


Banal nadas? No. Some things are.

by Miss_Snazzy



Series: Banal nadas— as they say. [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breaking the Fourth Wall, But nothing to worry about now, Deception, Human Experimentation, Modern Girl in Thedas, Musical References, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Red Lyrium, Rivalmance, Scars, Secret Identity, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Spoilers, Time Loop, Trolling, egg puns, gratuitous pop culture references, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:47:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Snazzy/pseuds/Miss_Snazzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm here to warn you."  She takes another step forward, holding her empty hands aloft when Cullen jerks his sword toward her.<br/>"Do you know her?" the Inquisitor demands.  "Is she with you?"<br/>"No."  Cole frowns, tilting his head as he stares at her.  She wiggles her fingers back.  "I don't know her."</p><p>...</p><p>A canon divergence of a canon divergence.<br/>Reading "The Spirit Girl — Banal nadas." first isn't necessary, but recommended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dramatic Entrance—Check.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Spirit Girl — Banal nadas.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807829) by [Miss_Snazzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Snazzy/pseuds/Miss_Snazzy). 



She hums to herself, strolling toward the gates to Haven.  She watches Cole's signature hat flicker around the group of Templars, silent but for the grunts he slices out of them.

One, two, three, four—

She ducks under the swipe of a sword, grasping the armored arm and using the momentum of the swing to force his strike upward.  Her dagger slips into her hand and she jerks the blade through the gap in his armor, listening to his sword clatter to the snow behind her.  She twirls behind him before he can grab her with his other arm, wrenching the injured appendage into a harsh angle.  His howl of pain ends with her blade dragging through his neck.  She drops the body and slips her dagger back into place.

Five, six—

"You!" Cullen shouts, brandishing his sword at her.  She stops humming and takes a step forward.  "Halt!"  She does.  "State your business!"

"I'm here to warn you."  She takes another step forward, holding her empty hands aloft when Cullen jerks his sword toward her.

"Do you know her?" the Inquisitor demands.  "Is she with you?"

"No."  Cole frowns, tilting his head as he stares at her.  She wiggles her fingers back.  "I don't know her."

"I'm not here to warn you about the Templars."

"No?  Then why are you here?"  The Inquisitor takes a step closer.  "Speak quickly."

"There is a dragon coming."

"A dragon?" Cullen scoffs.  "You expect us to believe—"

"I expect," she steps forward, keeping her gaze locked on the Inquisitor even as Cullen aims his sword at her gut, "that you will have many needless casualties haunting your conscience if you don't heed my warning and get the townspeople into the safety of the Chantry immediately."

"Why would—"

"Because Play-doh face up there," she hooks a thumb behind her, "likes to play pretend.  He wants you," she gestures at their confused faces, "to believe he's having regular tea parties with an Archdemon.  Not," she stresses at the horrified look that brings to their faces, "an Archdemon, though.  Just a dragon."  She clears her throat.  "A dragon who's going to set fire to Haven."

They stare at each other for a long moment.  She keeps her hands raised.

"Cullen, make the call."

"You can't be serious," Cullen protests, though he lowers his blade.  "She could be a spy."

"A spy who fought her way to the wrong side of an army of Templars?" the Inquisitor asks.  "Doubtful.  In any case, the Chantry is the most secure and defensible building in Haven."

Cullen nods, turning to rally his troops and the mages in turn, urging them to usher any civilians they come across to the Chantry.

She begins striding toward the blacksmith.

Seven, eight—

"Wait!  What's  your name?"  She pauses in her steps, staring at the hand on her arm.

"Helena," she says, looking into familiar violet eyes.  "My name is Helena."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post this until there was more, until The Spirit Girl was further along, but I've been holding onto this for two months...and well...I have poor impulse control sometimes.  
> This is a canon divergence of "The Spirit Girl — Banal nadas."  
> Updates on this story will be extremely slow due to that.


	2. And One-Two-Three

Helena glides through the town, pausing in her humming to coax and threaten in turns.

"Come with me if you want to live," she demands, extending a hand. She forces the giggle to remain behind her teeth. No giggling during the mayhem.

The man squawks at her and the state of his door, but a well tossed smoke grenade and a tight grasp has her jerking the Thedosian over the threshold just as the dragon pours fire through the roof.

Helena resumes humming and strides toward her next destination. Echo. Echo. Echo.

Why the echo?

Helena peers over her shoulder and whips around when she finds the man trailing her like a duckling.

"Oh my god, no—stop following me. Go to the Chantry."

The man sputters, but a good push in the right direction sends him on his way.

"Honestly..." Helena grumbles, striding forward to sidle up to the periphery of the Inquisitor's party.

Varric glances at her and she quirks her lips.

"Love the bow." She hooks her left finger and gestures to the right of the path ahead, going heavy on her R's when she says, "Thar be templars ahead!"

Varric opens his mouth, but Helena veers into the Singing Maiden before he can respond.

"I can't get up...help me...it hurts!"

Helena heaves the beam off of Flissa's leg and hoists her up with the next breath.

"Get to the Chantry," she throws over her shoulder, striding through the door.

One, two—

She grasps Adan under his arms and drags him across the snow, sliding right through Dorian's usual haunt.

"It's going to explode! Help!" Minaeve calls after her.

Three, four, five, six, seven—

She drops Adan and runs through their tracks, sliding her bag around to her front as she goes.

Eight, nine—

She whips the blanket out and throws herself on top of Minaeve's prone body, yanking the fabric over them.

"What are you—"

Ten—

The blast consumes all of the sound around them—and within her—and for a few moments, she feels almost calm.

Part of her leg splinters with fire and she keeps that sound held behind her teeth, too.

"Sliding, silent, still," she mumbles to herself as she shifts off of Minaeve's body. Oh—they're scurrying.

"What did you—" Cassandra demands, peering down at Minaeve, who, apart from the shock, appears unscathed. Solas begins tending to her anyway. "What is that?"

Helena shakes the blanket in front of Cassandra to demonstrate its lack of demonic possession, and thus, why her exaggerated pointing is unwarranted.

"Just a blanket."

"The fabric did not burn." Cassandra grasps an end and slides her fingers across the fabric.

"You're wearing gauntlets."

"This did not come from a dragon," Cassandra states, ignoring her. "How could it possibly withstand the effects of the explosion?"

"Seeker," Solas interjects, tone calm as ever, "perhaps this is not the best time—"

"An invention of mine." Helena waves a vague hand. "And a friend, I guess."

Cassandra's stare turns to steel.

"You must—"

Helena drops the blanket in favor of clapping her hands.

"I must," clap, "get to the Chantry," clap, "because I'm late," clap "late," clap, "for a very important date."

Cassandra looks ready to skin her. Solas frowns up at her from his kneeling position beside Minaeve. Varric just seems content to watch the show.

"No time to say hello!" Helena rips the blanket from Cassandra's hand. "Goodbye!" Helena twirls away, ignoring Cassandra's indignant noise as she passes Adan's prone body.

"On time, on time," Helena hums, soft, "always allocate time for a rhyme."

...

Ser Roderick is darting in front of a templar.

One,

Helena's dagger slips into the Templar's neck as she slides between them.

Two,

She swings the Templar's body around, jerking his shield into place and holds fast against the sharp thumps of a few loosed arrows.

Three,

One of her daggers sings through the air, striking the archer in the face with a squelch.

Four, Five,

The assassin materializes to her left and she crouches to avoid his strike, sweeping his feet out from under him. She jerks her blade into his gut before he can retaliate. The dull thump of his head hitting the floor punctuates her rise and turn toward Roderick.

"Now is not the time to play hero," Helena reprimands, hands on her hips.

Roderick stares at her in disbelief.

"To the Chantry with you!" Helena booms, pointing at the building with the emphasis of a hundred television moms.

Roderick's expression sours.

"Listen here—"

Helena's knees buckle and her eyes grow wide at the sight of an arrow poking out of her upper thigh.

"Where did you come from?" she whispers to it, perplexed.

Roderick's pained whimper breaks her out of her winding thoughts and she tenses at the sight of the knife embedded in his side, courtesy of the assassin she had tallied in her Dead column only seconds ago.

Helena surges forward and shoves her blade deep under the assassin's neck with a hiss, gritting her teeth hard enough to make a dentist cry.

...

"He's dead."

Helena glances up from the assassin's body to Cole, who extends a hand to her even though he is already supporting Roderick. AlreadysupportingRoderick...

She lost the count.

"Double tap," Helena nods tiredly. She perks up a little when one of her blades falls into Cole's proffered hand, which she takes and slides into her own sleeve. Her fingers twitch to slide it back out and record. She makes a mental note to discuss the surprise archer Cole dispatched once the excitement dies down.

Another glance at the assassin's still body and she scratches his death into the tally in her head.

Helena ignores the way Roderick flinches when she rises and swings his other arm across her shoulders, wondering when she broke the majority of the arrow shaft off of the chunk still sunk into her thigh.


	3. 3, 3, 4, 5-5, 4, 3, 2, 1-1, 2, 3, 2, 1-1

Helena slides down the Chantry wall, tapping around the chunk of arrow shaft poking out of her thigh like it's a mosquito bite.

"He tried to stop a templar," Cole explains to the Inquisitor a few feet away. "The blade went deep. He's going to die."

"What a charming boy," Helena mumbles.

"What a charming boy," Roderick notes, slumping further into Cole.

Helena watches the Chantry sisters dart around Haven's more hysterical residents, offering their usual brand of placid reassurances. Their faces smooth in response to the platitudes and Helena frowns.

Ripples don't just disappear.

"Do you play?"

Helena blinks up at Solas. A fade-step or a light trek?

"Play?" she asks, blank.

"The piano," Solas elaborates, gesturing down at her right hand tapping against the stone beneath her. Helena stills the movement. "I am unfamiliar with the pattern, but—"

"No."

"No?" Solas repeats with an amused lilt. "A shame. Someone with your fingers and dexterity could sweep melodies across the keys with ease."

"And someone with your smooth scalp could model wigs," Helena sighs, rocking her head back into the wall behind her with a dull smack.

Solas's stare presses in on her as she levers herself up, but she keeps her gaze on the sisters.

"You're injured," Solas notes once she straightens.

"Meh." Helena shrugs and ambles over to the Inquisitor.

"...to be the only one who remembers," Roderick muses almost to himself, "I don't know, Herald."

Helena scratches at her left bracer, ignoring the weight of her dagger. Still tucked away.

"If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident," Roderick points out, gaze steady on the Inquisitor. " _You_ could be more."

The Inquisitor's violet eyes burn with a ferocity Helena still cannot recall ever witnessing in her counterpart.

"If that thing is here for me, I'll make him fight for it," the Inquisitor asserts.

"And when the mountain falls?" Cullen demands. "What about you?"

"Bow-chika-wow-wow..." Helena sings softly to herself when their gazes meet, adopting a yikes expression when Cullen breaks it to glare her way.

Cullen turns back to the Inquisitor and his expression softens.

"Perhaps you will surprise it," he offers, "find a way..."

Helena turns toward Cole and grins. She nearly claps her hands in delight when he replies with a small, knowing smile.

"Inquisition!" Cullen growls out. "Follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry! Move!"

"Herald..." Roderick breathes out when Cole moves to tow him away. "If you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this, I pray for you."

The Inquisitor nods, expression solemn. Cole coaxes Roderick forward and Helena wishes she could scrape the sound of their shuffling footsteps off of her eardrums.

"I'll load the trebuchets," Cullen announces. "Keep the Elder One's attention until we're above the tree line."

Helena folds her arms and props her chin on her right hand, staring at Cullen in all his earnest glory.

"If we are to have a chance—if _you_ are to have a chance—let that thing hear you."

"Shiver me timbers," Helena grins to herself, quiet enough to avoid ruining the moment. She drops her arms but continues watching Cullen as he strides away. "I wonder if Vivienne would punch me if I asked to borrow a feather boa..." she muses, itching to shove her hands into the mantle draped across his shoulders.

Helena turns to follow Cullen, but the Inquisitor's hand on her arm stalls her. Again.

"I saw you out there." Helena nods, pursing her lips. "You did a lot of good," the Inquisitor says, her expression earnest enough to rival staring at the sun. Her grip tightens. "Make sure they make it out."

Helena grits her teeth.

"I'll do what I can, mon Cappy-tan." She punctuates her words with a mocking salute.

The Inquisitor just smiles.

"Thank you."


	4. Those Who's And Their Damn Singing

"Ready the flare!" Cullen urges, waving the last of the Haven residents through the tree line. Snap, crackle, pop. The members of the Inquisition watch the trail of light reach its peak in the sky with bated breath.

Helena keeps her face lax.

The ground shakes and the air fills with horrified gasps as a mountain of snow slides over Haven like a blanket. A few of the residents collapse against the trees, gazes rising toward the scarred sky. Cullen presses a fist to his mouth and stares at that blanket of white, breath stuttering out. He slumps but does not fall, his other hand twitching, and Helena can almost hear the lyrium sing to him.

"We must keep moving," Leliana reminds him after a few minutes, her voice level.

Helena wonders what whispers of the Maker's voice she hears now, with her messiah lost deep beneath the snow. Leliana meets her gaze, almost as if she heard the thought.

"Don't let her death be in vain," Helena directs at Cullen, her voice as earnest as she can manage.

Cullen glares at her, but he also straightens.

"Inquisition! We must keep moving!" Cullen booms in his best Commander voice.

Helena can still feel Leliana's gaze on her as she extends a hand to Flissa, who pulls herself up with a grateful, if shaky, smile.

...

The Inquisitor survives, blah, blah blah.

The Inquisitor wakes up, yada, yada, yada.

The advisors argue, boo—freaking—hoo.

Inquisition loves a messiah, la-dee-freaking-da.

Helena veers away from the crowd before the first note can sneak into her ears.

"I must stop Christmas from coming!" Helena proclaims with a dramatic fist in the air.  She hums to herself in an effort to drown them out. "You're a mean one...Mr. Grinch.  Bump-bump!  You really are a heel..."

Helena eases herself down onto a boulder a few feet high and peers at her wound. The arrow stalk extends approximately half an inch out of her thigh. Tricky to get a good grip of.

Helena huffs out a sigh and yanks her gloves off with her teeth, spitting them into her lap. Resting her hands on her belt, she watches the blood's sluggish progression across her thigh. Her thoughts grow slippery with the blood loss, her head muddled. Her hands remain still.

"You need a healer."

Helena stiffens, gaze darting past Solas to peer over her shoulder at the still chorusing crowd behind her. In her periphery, she watches him coax a flame onto the torch beside her with a wave of his hand. Nox. Nox. No—

She moves her hands to the boulder, splaying her fingers wide.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Solas follows her gaze to the crowd surrounding the Inquisitor and the level of Grinchiness in his expression rivals her own.

"My talents would be better suited here, considering your keenness to avoid the healer's tent thus far."

Helena squints up at him.

"And you care...why?"

Solas tilts his head back enough to stare down his nose at her in that haughty way he oh-so enjoys.

"You know I can see up your nose, right?"

"I care," Solas presses, maintaining the pose, "because I suspect our spymaster would be disappointed should you bleed out before she has a chance to interrogate you."

Helena's lips pull back into a smile full of teeth.

"Well, when you put it like that."

Helena unbuckles her belt and eases her pants over the arrow shaft, gritting her teeth against the hiss trying to escape. She slides them down just enough to reach the wound. The end of the tunic beneath her armor spills between her legs, concealing her smalls with the kind of efficiency that could get her more hot and bothered than a raunchy screenshot of porn ever could.

Solas kneels on the snow and studies her wound in silence, hand curled around his chin. Helena stares at the resulting plumpness of his bottom lip, impassive, and reaches a hand back into her bag.

"Judging by the diameter of the shaft—"

"It's a broadhead," Helena says, waving a spare arrow in his face.

Solas looks less than impressed. Definitely not amused.

"In that case, I am afraid this is going to be quite painful," Solas informs her, staring into her eyes. Her waving stalls at just the right angle to cover his eyebrows. They practically scream their concern at her.

Helena's face goes blank.

"Have you considered using a modified Frost Step?"

Solas blinks and Helena fixates on the facial tics that mark his synapses tick-tick-ticking away.

"Using that spell, even on a less potent scale, won't lessen the damage," Solas points out, despite sounding impressed, "nor will it mitigate the pain."

"No, but it will numb it and keep more of my blood from pumping out." Helena swallows, clenching her hands against the boulder until she feels the rough surface scrape away some of her skin. "I'm pretty close to passing out, actually."

Solas leans closer, his hand shifting in an aborted movement toward her leg.

"Go ahead, Fred, before I'm dead." Helena braces herself on her clenched hands, focusing on the bite of her fingernails into her palms.

Solas curls one hand around her thigh, his grip somehow both gentle and solid. Helena angles her face toward the sky, but that isn't what she sees. The fingers of his other hand press against the arrow shaft and she begins to hum in earnest.

"Poor thing..." Helena sings, keeping her voice as low as she can manage. "Poor thing..."

A spike of ice spreads beneath her skin and she clenches her jaw tight, sealing a hand across her mouth. Her other hand follows suit and she curls forward, huffing air loudly through her nose. The bile coils up her throat and she swallows against the burn.

Six eyes stare up at her in concern and the whispers croon in her ear.

"Helena?"

Helena twitches, scraping her shoulder against her right ear. She clenches her eyes shut until she can find Solas again.

"Helena?" Concern, cloying, clear.

"That's my name, don't wear it out," Helena croaks, blinking down at him.

All of the muscles in Solas's face seem to just pull down. Helena wonders how long he had been calling her name.

"Are you alright?" Solas asks.

Helena eases her pants over her bandaged wound in silence, ignoring the shakiness of her hands as she slips her buckle back into place.

"Depends..." Helena finally replies, keeping her voice soft and earnest. Solas leans closer. "...on whether I'll ever dance again," she finishes, pursing her lips and peering at him with wide eyes.

Solas slips back behind that mask of his and rises. Helena embraces the relief and guilt with open arms.

"I have removed the rest of the arrow and healed some of the damaged tissue," Solas informs her, detached. "The frost magic I used at the base of the wound will keep your leg numbed enough to function for a time." He tilts his head down, gaze serious. "You must seek proper healing before the resulting moisture begins to spread infection."

Helena nods and claps her hands together.

"Well. Thanks for the patch job." Helena glances over her shoulder again. "Looks like the prayer circle is over. I'm sure you and the Inquisitor have important business to discuss."

Helena rubs her hands down her pant legs before pulling her gloves back on. When she turns back, she shifts backward a little at the sight of Solas still standing there.

"Whoa—what?"

"'Patch job' or not," Solas presses, "you require rest."

Helena waves a hand at him.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll hobble my way over to the campfire in a few minutes."

"Can you walk?" Solas asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Pshhh. Of course I can," Helena huffs and stands. The world tilts and Solas grabs her shoulders. "Not. Cannot. Of course I cannot walk," Helena corrects in a tone that suggests Solas is stupid for believing she could. Her breathing has deepened. "I just had an arrow yanked out of my leg."

Solas sighs and she almost fist bumps the air—because, total win—when he hunches enough to slip her arm across his shoulders. The position feels awkward with their slight height difference, but it does keep most of her weight off her injured leg.

Helena remains silent as Solas tows her closer to the campfire.

"You have yet to pass out, despite earlier assurances," Solas notes after a few moments of their hobbling, eyeing her.

"What, and miss this quality time?" Helena shoots back, plastering her smarmiest grin onto her face. She drops all her weight onto him with a spiteful little thrill.

When Solas continues to tow her with ease, a smirk now firm on his face, Helena devotes all her energy into restraining herself from kicking him behind the knee.


	5. Sales Pitch

"Civilian casualties were minimal, thanks to you."

Helena hacks into her branch with a little too much force.

"Your...distraction afforded us the necessary time to escape," Josephine continues, the stars in her eyes audible in her voice.

"I didn't really do all that much," the Inquisitor replies, ruffling her dark hair into more unruly spikes. "Commander Cullen and his soldiers—"

"Lady Herald," Josephine insists, "without the sacrifice of both you and Chancellor Roderick—"

Helena's branch snaps in two. She stares at each piece—clenched in either hand—and frowns.

"Did you know him well?"

Helena looks up at a fully-armored Cassandra standing beside her. A Fade-step can't excuse this oversight. The deeper press of bark on her palms eases some of the bite.

"Not really." Helena looks away. "The Red Templars didn't leave much time for chitchat."

The clink of Cassandra's armor broadcasts the shift of her stance.

"I saw what you did for the people of Haven." Cassandra's voice softens. "You saved Minaeve and I accosted you—"

"Don't worry about it."

"You deserved a better reception," Cassandra insists, stepping closer. "Without your warning, many would have burned."

"Nah. You guys would've managed fine."

"No." Cassandra's voice hardens. "Without you, Chancellor Roderick would have died before he could lead us to safety."

"He did die," Helena points out with a wry smile.

When Helena meets Cassandra's gaze again, she finds them softened. Sympathetic.

Sym-pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.Pathetic.Pathetic.Pathetic.Pathetic.Pathetic.Pathetic.

"He was a good man," Cassandra offers and her face just looks so—

"He was a dick," Helena sneers, tossing both pieces of her branch to the ground. "And a complete moron."

Cassandra rears back. Just a little. So slight a shift that she might've missed it.

Helena curls her fingernails into the indents the bark left on her palms and stalks off into the neighboring trees before Cassandra can retaliate.

...

The tree Helena settles on offers width enough to support her back, most of its branches raised high in a wave. One straggler branch keeps her from scraping her back against the bark in a rough slide, strong enough to handle her weight as she lowers herself to the ground. Not smooth enough to keep her hand steady.

"Should have set this down first," Helena huffs, placing the now less full wooden bowl of water on a level area beside her.

Her left leg extends outward, but she keeps her right tucked close. She unbuckles her belt and shifts her pants over the wound, cringing at the tacky pull of old blood.

"God, I miss Shout," Helena sighs, surveying the new brown patches blotting the bunched fabric. She eases the makeshift bandage off of her thigh and grimaces at the layer of dried blood painting her skin.

"Insert menstruation joke here," Helena murmurs, studying the slow ooze of blood out of the hole in her leg. "Not much longer now."

Helena pulls an old but sterile cloth out of her bag. The red stone follows, near dull from overuse.

"Cutting that kinda close, weren't you?" Helena evaluates, frowning when turning the stone offers only a quick flicker of its old shine.

Helena sighs, still frowning, and slips the rune into the wooden bowl. The surface of the water ripples in excitement, but minutes pass before the steam curls into the air.

The water remains clear when Helena dips the cloth in and she snorts, adjusting her position. Dried blood flakes off her leg like pencil shavings. The cloth grows heavy and dark, consuming more with each pass.

Helena keeps her gaze focused on the task, through the crunch of snowy leaves and the appearance of two booted feet.

"Leliana," Helena hums after several moments, frowning at her remaining rosy water, "interrogation time already?"

Helena holds a new song about fingernails slip-sliding with new blood behind her teeth. Don't poke the bear. Not without a poking device. Not enough chopsticks and forks. Ugly Naked Guy isn't dead yet.

Movement finally coaxes her gaze up.

Helena blinks at the proffered wad of cloth and glances down at her own soiled one. Not a speck of light in those deep red tones.

"If there's poison on this, I'm going to be pissed," Helena remarks, but drops her rag with a squelch in favor of Leliana's fresh one.

"This would hardly be the most opportune time to poison you," Leliana points out.

Helena clicks her tongue.

"True." She dips the new cloth into the tainted water, watching the rosy tone spread across the near manila with an intrigued pout. "Dead men tell no tales."

Leliana crouches down to her level. To make them level. Helena purses her lips and squints at her pulsing wound to keep her eyes from rolling.

"Clever," Leliana inclines her head toward the steaming bowl of water, "though ultimately wasteful when a fire burns behind you."

Helena shrugs.

"That's me—clever, but ultimately wasteful."

Each swipe of Leliana's cloth exposes more of Helena's skin underneath. She can feel Leliana study her patterns, but continues her ministrations.

"See anything you like?" Helena asks with a toothy grin.

Leliana stares, steady and still, and Helena's mouth begins to feel like a mish-mash of muscles.

"I'll let you know when I do."

The grin slips off of Helena's face. She refocuses on cleaning the blood around her wound, restraining her fingers from tracing any of the white lines.

"Your knife skills for instance," Leliana continues. "Your aim is impeccable."

"Lots of practice."

"I didn't ask how you learned," Leliana remarks, gaze steadying on her own.

"No, you didn't."

"I doubt you would tell me the truth if I did."

"I might," Helena muses, tilting her head. "Never know if you never ask."

"The Maker has his trials for us all." Leliana smiles, the resignation in that tempered somewhat by the sadness in her eyes. Or is that determination? "Colorful pasts mean little when men like Corypheus seek destruction."

"So you'll take what you can get, is that right?" Helena asks with a deprecating smile. She drops the cloth into the bowl and her face goes blank. "Is this your sales pitch?"

"If it was?"

"Then I'd recommend having Ruffles rework it. She's much more personable. Hides her insults a little better."

Leliana stares. Helena blinks.

"Oh—is it the Ruffles?" Helena mock gasps with a hand held to her mouth. "However did I know?" She trails her index finger across her bottom lip, staring into the distance. "Maybe I overheard it from Varric." She drops her hand and all expression, meeting Leliana's gaze. "Maybe I'm just that good."

"Is this 'your' sales pitch?" Leliana repeats, raising an eyebrow.

"This," Helena leans forward, "is just a sample. Sometimes I know things. And sometimes I can't tell you how."

"Would the avalanche be one such 'thing'?"

Helena blinks.

"You knew it would happen," Leliana states, eyes narrowing.

Helena stares back.

"If you think so...then why haven't I been spirited away yet?" Helena wonders.

"And yet," Leliana continues, standing straighter somehow despite her continued crouch, "the Inquisitor has confirmed the burial of Haven as an act she orchestrated in the heat of the moment. Alone."

Helena squints.

"Was there a question hidden in there somewhere?"

"I have only one question you must answer before we can move forward." Leliana tips her head forward. "What is your relationship to Corypheus and the Templars he puppets?"

Time to break out that B-word.

"Corypheus and his Red Templars are a Blight in their own right," Helena states, tone serious. "They must be stopped."

"Well, then." Leliana extends a hand with a smile. "Welcome to the Inquisition."

Helena takes the proffered hand and smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being MIA.  
> Excuses as follows: death, theme park vacation, funeral, sick af.  
> Seriously sick. I can't remember the last time I was this sick. Goddamn.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	6. Of Laxing Standards

"Everyday we're h-h-hustl'in, b-b-bustl'in," Helena mumbles, bobbing her head to the beat of their footsteps.  The distant trudge and clang of the rest of Haven's refugees adds an interesting counter beat.

"What tavern did you pick that up in?" Varric asks, slowing to keep pace with her.

Helena squints down at him, readjusting her pack.

"Why?"

"Sounds like a good place for some strong ale."  Varric grins.  "Been lookin' for somewhere new."

"They cut your favorite man down?"  Helena holds her hand to her forehead like a visor.  Nothing but miles of snow and rocks with a few clusters of trees sprinkled in for extra flavor.  Heave-ho.

Varric's grin twists with puzzlement.

"Sorry?"

"The Hanged Man?" Helena drops her hand and peers down at him.  "Get it?"

"Ah," Varric nods, "you've read my book."

"You mean your love letter to Hawke?"

Varric turns his choke into a chuckle.

"Never heard it described like that."

Helena hums.  Varric watches her out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes?" she sighs after a handful of feet through the snow.

"That's it?"

"You'd think as a writer, you'd understand the need for specificity," Helena grumbles to the sky.  "Is what it?"

"You've read my book closely enough to remember the finer details," Varric points out, angling his head toward her.  "I'm just waiting for the barrage of questions."

"Okay.  What kind of shampoo do you use to keep your chest hair so luscious?"

"Now that's a secret I keep close—"

"To the chest?" Helena offers.  She raises her eyebrows and sucks her bottom lip into her mouth.

Varric grins, squinting up at her in an appreciative sort of surprise.  Helena counts that as a total win. 

"Something like that."

Tallies, dashes, and dots—she might just win this pot.

"Your fixation on hair might prove disturbing should it persist," Solas comments, taking position on Helena's left side.  "Who shall you set your attention upon next?"  His gaze stays focused on the mountains ahead of them.  "Perhaps Blackwall, in regard of his beard."

Helena rolls her eyes.

"Kinkshaming, Solas?  Really?"

Solas and Varric choke on either side of her.

"What?"  Varric coughs, raising an eyebrow in question.  "Sounds like there's a story here."

"Sounds like someone is feeling insecure," Helena corrects, directing a sweet smile to her left.

Solas keeps his gaze aimed forward and Helena scowls.

"But he shouldn't be," Helena continues, blithe, "time devours us all."  A humming laugh slips out despite herself.  "Old age is nothing to be ashamed of."

Helena watches the way her words ruffle Solas with absolute delight.

"Old age?  Really—"

"Really, really."  Helena plasters on a grin full of teeth.

Solas scoffs.  Helena returns her gaze forward.

"Are you vain or simply blinded by the youthful illusion of permanence?"

Helena glances at Solas out of her corner of her eye, but otherwise keeps facing forward.  Blank as a slate.

"How will you cope once you've gone weathered and grey?"  Solas shifts his shoulders back, head tipping in his signature haughty angle.  "Humans seldom age well."

Helena stares at the endless sea of white ahead of them and laughs.  She laughs and laughs, until her lungs ache and her vocals abandon her.  And she keeps laughing, tilting to the left as her legs grow weaker.  She peers up at Solas, at his clenched jaw, and she laughs some more.

Varric coughs and Helena wrangles some air into her lungs.

"Something funny?" Iron Bull asks, injecting himself into their group with ease.  What a bider.  Stealth spy or not, no one misses the Qunari hulking in the background.

Helena straightens with an effort due only in part to her laughing fit.

"Only the Inquisitor's increasingly lax standards," Solas comments without a hint of amusement.

Helena watches him stride ahead and take his customary position in the Inquisitor's shadow.

"He does love his dramatic exits, doesn't he?" Helena comments with a twitch of her lips.  A man after her own heart.

Helena sweeps the expression off her face like dust.

"Okay, I have to know—what have you got against Chuckles?" Varric asks after a few moments of silence, forgoing the side glances for a frontal assault.

Helena notes the way the sun bounces off Solas's head. 

"I've got nothing against him."

"Don't need two eyes to see the tension between you two," Iron Bull comments.

"Don't need two eyes for a lot of things," Helena observes with a wink.

Iron Bull chuckles.

"I don't think we've had the pleasure.  You are...?"

"Helena, but you already knew that," she points out, extending her hand.

Iron Bull quirks a brow, but returns the gesture.  Helena smiles at the novelty of his hand engulfing her own.

"The Iron Bull."  His bemused smile shifts into a smirk.  "But you already knew that."

Helena inclines her head in acceptance.


	7. Where Did You Come From?

Helena jerks awake to the bustle of the Inquisition loading back up for another day's trek through the snowy mountains.  She frowns at the rays of sunlight slashing through the sky, keeping her gaze averted from the people-shaped objects in her vicinity.

She levers herself up and hums against the telltale wave of dizziness, planting her feet even as her eyes lose focus.  What a rush, rush, time to mush, mush.  She blinks hard and rolls up her bedroll, strapping it to her pack.

"Lush, plush, blush," Helena murmurs, shouldering her pack just as the first wave of Haven's refugees comes dragging by.  "Fush, wush, enush."  She winces.  "Shush!"

One of the refugees gives Helena and her raised finger an odd look.  She lowers her finger and presses her fist to her lips.

"Hush," Helena nods to herself, stepping around the bewildered man to follow the flow of traffic.

...

Helena slips into the gap between Dorian and Varric—

"Like a straw between buck teeth," Helena murmurs.  She glances at each man, restraining herself from pressing their eyebrows back down to a more respectable position for men of their experience.

"So this is the woman who swept through Haven like a storm, rescuing damsels in a flurry of knives and song," Dorian announces.  Cloudy with a chance of snark.

"My friends call me Helena.  At least, they would if I had any friends—so..." Helena drags the word out with a grin.  "We haven't officially met yet.  And I, for one, think that's tragic."

"With that level of charm, I might have to agree!"  Dorian chuckles.  "Dorian Pavus—Tevinter magister and all around pariah."

"Oh, but all of the best people are pariahs," Helena insists.  "Isn't that right, Varric?"

Varric continues to raise those caterpillars at her.  Any higher and they'll fly away like butterflies.

"Don't mind me—you two go back to stroking each other's egos."

"Aw, Varric...if you wanted a stroke, all you had to do was ask," Helena purrs with a cheeky grin.

Varric chokes and—oh my god, is that a blush—while Dorian guffaws in the background.

"Seriously though."  Helena clasps her hands together, tapping her pointer fingers against her pursed lips.  "How soft is that chest hair?"  She points her fingers at Varric's chest-er-field.  "Inquiring minds want to know."

"Chuckles was right, you are obsessed," Varric replies after a lot of throat clearing.  "Careful, Sparkler.  She might set her sights on you next."

"If she wants to wax poetic about the glory of my moustache, who am I to stall creativity?" Dorian wonders.

"Thank you," Helena says with an earnest smile.

Varric sighs the sigh of the suffering, so Helena redirects her attention ahead.  In the distance, Solas continues to glide around the Inquisitor's shadow like the creepy puppeteer he is, but another seems to have crashed their party—the Commander himself.

Bingo.

"Tell me there's already a pool going."

Dorian and Varric's silent stare fails to answer her question.  Now Helena sighs the sigh of the suffering.

"Spikes and Curly," Helena flicks a hand at them.  "The Bachelorette—Inquisition edition."  She holds a fist to her mouth, adopting her best announcer voice, "Who will the Herald choose to become their Heraldette?  Vote now."

"Spikes?"

"Yeah, Spikes.  I mean, just look at that hair."  Helena flicks another hand ahead.  Varric just eyes her.  "What?  You're the only one allowed to come up with nicknames?"

"If our dear commander does harbor feelings for our Lady Herald," Dorian muses, brushing a finger across his moustache, "I am afraid they may go unrequited."

"Oh?"

"I heard Blackwall made quite the impression," Dorian explains, lips curling.

"Besides," Varric adds, "Curly has trouble stuttering out more than a few words when they aren't 'Inquisition,' 'soldiers,' or 'Templars.'"

"Yeah, but, Spikes seems more the type to get off on the stammering," Helena points out, wincing at the thought of him stammering at her clit.  And her counterpart.  What the fuck—no.  "That's what they call them gooood vibrations," she sings anyway.  The image continues to bounce around to her rising panic.  Oh god—bounce.  "Sing the scars awayyyy..."

Helena hums in earnest, mashing her hands against her cheeks and eyes.  Open or close, can't stop this feeling...

"Where did you come from..."

Helena stops humming and mashing and looks up.

Half of Cole's face, half of his hat, now faces her.  He continues to walk backwards, each step taken with ease.

"Where did you go..." Cole continues, voice soft.

Helena can feel Dorian and Varric's gazes darting between them, but neither seems inclined to interrupt.

"Where did you come from..." Cole tilts his head back enough to meet her gaze, "...Cotton-eyed Joe?"

Helena's face slackens and her hands fall and then she just barks out a laugh that makes Dorian and Varric jump.

"Oh, Cole."  Helena sighs, reaching forward to tap his cheek.  She ignores the way everyone tenses at that and just rests her hand against his cool skin, meeting his shocked gaze with a smile.  A near minute passes before she drops both to turn to her right.  "He knows not what he has done," she laments with a sad smile to Varric.

"That...uh...sounds ominous," Varric offers, his resting grin straining.

...

"Sparkler was right, this is getting unbearable," Varric grumbles.

"Think how I feel!"  Helena starts rubbing at her face again. 

She resumes humming.  Varric grimaces.

"Oh god, help me," Helena groans after a minute.  "I can't hold it in any longer."

"No."

"It's coming."

"Please don't."

"Where did you come from?  Where did you go?  Where did you come from, Cotton-eyed Joe?" Helena sings, the words near bursting out of her.  She starts making sound effects for the instruments and Varric groans, speeding his pace.

Helena stares after him in longing, unable to escape herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a lengthy discussion with a friend of mine over the pros and cons, I finally updated the tags. I intended to wait until said tags became more explicitly known by the other characters in the narrative, but meh. As someone who relies on tags to find new stories, I can appreciate the directness.
> 
> Also, there are now two shitty comics I made for this story on my blog. You can follow me at "misssnazzy.tumblr.com" for random story nonsense.  
> (Not that I post as much about my writing as I'd like...mostly because I think only a couple of my followers actually read my writing)
> 
> Oh, and because there was no Solas in this chapter (which seems very anti-Easter of me), have this:
> 
> Helena: Come on guys, Solas isn't so bad. Sure, he's got a hard, pale exterior (and posterior, heh), but under all that is a gooey yellow center.  
> Solas: [dead face] Like an egg.  
> Helena: [gasp] Oh my god, Solas! Can you be serious for a moment? Geez.  
> Solas: [walking away]  
> Helena: Wait! I'm sorry. You know I love you with all my yolk.
> 
> [I wrote like 20 egg puns at work the other day and I have a sneaking suspicion they'll end up here]


	8. Rule 23

The route to Skyhold extends ahead of them, long and arduous.  Helena marches amongst the rest, tapping against a small pocket on her outer thigh.  She can't pick Cole out of the crowd ahead of her, nor behind.  He has gone ghost, she knows, and no amount of dreary thoughts will coax him out.  At least, none of the ones she feels in the mood to indulge.

Her tongue gets caught on the dry flaking of her bottom lip, but for all her tapping, she can't justify the waste.  Maybe Orlais has a suitable replacement for the near empty tube of chapstick in her pocket, but she suspects the price would fail to match its quality.

"And probably made out of some kind of goo," Helena  murmurs.

She had one of those make-your-own chapstick kits, back in the day.  Too bad the recipe failed to make it into her mental archive. 

One of the mages to her left trips on a combination of robes and elfroot.  Helena eyes the stalk when she extends a hand to said mage, who she can feel grimace at her.  Maybe she could work up some kind of minty salve?

The mage—something with an "E," Helena thinks—glances around them, ignoring the proffered hand as she stands.  E for Erica, maybe, resumes walking without a word.

"Doesn't that get hot?" Helena asks, keeping pace.

"Excuse me?"

"The robe," Helena nods at her—Ella, Erin, Ester—attire.

Ellie or Emily surveys her own clothes with a frown.

"This is standard garment for most mages," Elsa or Emma says in that way people do when they fear they've made an unintentional slight.  And will suffer a disproportionate punishment.

"Why though?  It seems really impractical.  I mean, can you even really move," Helena sinks her next step into a quick lunge, gritting her teeth against the way the world shifts along with the pull of skin on either leg, "in that thing?  How do you breathe in all that heavy fabric?"

Ember—you will remember—blinks, surveying their surroundings once more.  Helena wants to ask if she often needs to reassure herself of the reality around her.  Is Dissociation even a thing here?  More talk of demons than chemical imbalances.  It all probably gets tossed into the Abomination box, regardless.  Mental sigh.

"We are in the Frostback mountains," E says, each word slow and deliberate.

"Still though."  Helena frowns.  Being treated like a dummy smarts.  "Why not some kind of leather or hide?  Something that won't leave you as a pincushion if someone gets trigger happy."

E stills, even as she continues walking.  Helena really wants to know how she manages that.  The tension around her seems taut as steel.

"If we're deemed a threat, we aren't meant to be able to fight back," E points out, smoothing her hands down the folds of her robe.

Helena taps the pocket on her thigh.  Waste not, want not.

"And now that you've left the Circle?"

E blinks.  Her gaze loses some of its edge as she surveys the area around her once more, pausing on a few of the younger mages in their immediate vicinity.

"I suppose...once funds permit."

Helena sweeps a hand at some nearby rocks, grinning her best toothy smile.

"There's gold in them hills," Helena insists in her loud, prospector voice. 

A few of the magelings jump and look away.  Gotcha.  E's next step falls wide, increasing the distance between them.

"Well, there's iron anyway," Helena amends, dropping the accent and stuffing her hands into her jacket.  She focuses on the stretch of snow ahead of her.  Always that same stupid stretch of snow.  "Just need a pickaxe and a little coin and the blacksmith will set you up."

The magelings continue to watch their steps, mindful of their robes and the threat of damp.  Tense and mindful of her, too.  Helena looks anywhere but her own.  Out of sight, out of mind.  This is just a Feel Good Drag.  Nothing to see here, move along.  Only pins and needles.

The backdrop of ache persists through the nonsense.

"I don't know how to mine ore," E admits after a time.

"And I don't own a pickaxe," Helena says, voice gone quiet.  She grimaces.  "I did, once.  But being overburdened here costs you more than your speed of pace."

I am sworn to carry your burdens.  I am sworn to carry your burdens.  I am sworn to carry your burdens. I am sworn—

E coughs to hide a sharp laugh.  The magelings abandon their feet once more, attention angling toward their conversation like buds seeking sunlight.  Helena's shoulders loosen.

"Hey, you wanna hear a story?" Helena asks, noting the way a few of them perk up at that.

...

"And so the evil wizard, he cackles and says," Helena deepens her voice into a megalomaniacal rasp, "'Bravery.  Your parents had it too.  Tell me, Harry...would you like to see your mother and father again?  Together, we can bring them back."  One of the magelings sucks in a breath.  "All I ask...is for something in return...'"

The magelings wait for Helena's next words with bated breath, having given up the illusion of disinterest around the time Hagrid turned Dudley into a piglet.  The elder mages seem more bemused than anything, but they have also remained attentive throughout.  E has an actual smile on her face, wonder of wonders.

"And you know what the boy wizard said?  He—"

A distinct clang knocks Helena's next words right out of her mouth.  The procession ahead of them slows to a stop, the refugees now systematic in their assembling of tents and the new campfire.  Commander Cullen directs his soldiers this way and that, militant in his securing of the area.

Helena exhales a shaky breath and eases out of the din.  Story time falls lower on the rung.  She keeps her gaze focused on the trees, unwilling to compete and watch their attention flit away in the usual fashion.

The mages and magelings delve into their own preparations for the night, a fair few following Helena's trek away with downcast eyes.

...

"Curiosity killed the cat," Helena greets Solas.

She peers over her shoulder at him and raises an eyebrow when he continues peeking into the journal propped open on her leg.  Somehow he still looks haughty and indignant, even as he invades her privacy.

What  a hip-hip-hippo-crite.  Hypocrite.

"But satisfaction brought it back," Solas counters, taking a step closer.

"I don't think you could handle that," Helena shoots back, but her face slackens, her eyes going a touch wide.  Just enough for someone like Solas to notice.

Idiom, idiom, whose got the idiom?

Helena grips her quill tighter and returns her gaze to her journal.

The campfire fills the air between them with sharp cracks and the chatter of its other occupants.  Helena dips her quill into the inkwell beside her, careful not  to upend the bottle over the side of the log beneath.  Solas follows the steady scratch of her quill with his gaze.

"So what is it then?" Helena wonders aloud, directing the question as much to Solas as herself.  "Curiosity aside, you seemed pretty keen to avoid me and my playground antics," she muses, beginning to doodle in the margins on her current page.  Might as well take a break from her diligent note-taking. 

Helena blinks hard against a wave of dizziness.  Le sigh.

"You...acknowledge the childish nature of your actions?" Solas hedges.

Helena snorts, but doesn't look up.  She almost has the weird chin balls right.  Goddamn, does she miss erasers.

"I'm not blind, deaf, or dumb, even with the hum—" Helena smiles at the rhyme, "—ming.  I'm always aware of what comes out of my mouth."  She waggles her eyebrows, slipping into a shit-eating grin, "And in."

Solas scoffs.

"Yeah, yeah, keep it to yourself, Mr. Peanut."  Helena sighs.  "Why so serious, Solas?"  She misses her own cue for laughter.  She just wants to close her eyes.  "Would it really be better if I spoke in clear, concise sentences, full of empty pleasantries and ruminations over the dark, dreary future ahead?"

Helena's words hang in the air.  The campfire spits, a flame flaring with a crackle she's certain wasn't natural.

"Why come to Haven's aid?" Solas demands, voice sharp.  Helena knows if she looks up, she'll meet a narrow, suspicious gaze.  She doesn't.  "Why endear yourself to the Herald with your show," Solas wields the word like a blade, "during the battle if you view the Inquisition's capabilities with such pessimism?"

"Pessimism?"  Helena laughs.  She feels so, so hollow in moments like these.  "People are toying with magics that can and have torn into reality itself.  That kind of meddling has consequences, consequences that no one—not you, nor I—could ever hope to deduce the extent of."

Helena puts down her quill lest she break it.

"Why do anything?" Helena asks, staring down at her terrible rendition of Chicken.  Something off in the face—the body?  Something she can't see.  Not anymore.  "I knew I could help, so I did.  It's a win-win.  People get saved and my...my actions mean something for a little while."  Helena swallows, like the clogs in her throat can pull the words back in.  This is why she made that rule about talking to Solas when lightheaded.  Rule twenty-three?  "Just because you don't understand my motives, doesn't mean they're bad."

Helena keeps her gaze on the journal, pressing her thumbs against her nails on either hand to try to alleviate that telltale itch underneath.  She can feel Solas's stare and wonders what he makes of her tapping.  Does he think it the tic of a pianist?  A physical reference for counting?

Helena almost smiles.  A sick kind of delight tickles down her arms.

"I suppose...your behavior is not entirely without merit," Solas concedes, his tone one of surprise.

Helena looks up this time—surprise has always been an excellent look for Solas.  She notes the slight furrow of his eyebrows and the purse of his lips.  Not her favorite, but a good one nonetheless.

"Juvenile though your behavior may be," Solas offers with a small, amused smile, "it does offer a necessary respite from darker thoughts."

Helena rolls her eyes.

"Find another jester to fill your fantasy.  I've never been into politics or court intrigue."

"No?" Solas wonders, peering closer.  "I imagine your nonsensical behavior could become quite the weapon in the right circumstances."

"Weaponized nonsense?" Helena sums up, lips quirking.  "I kind of like that."

Solas inclines his head.

"I thought you might appreciate the sentiment."

Helena hums and starts sketching Cow.  Perhaps the udders will encourage Solas to skedaddle.

"Weaponized nonsense," Solas repeats, "seems better suited to steps made behind closed doors."

What the fuck?  Stupid, useless cow nipples.

"Okay, nice opinion," Helena offers.  "You know, opinions are like nipples.  Everyone's got one.  Doesn't mean the class wants to hear about them," Helena points out.  "Except for Nelly No-Nipples, but he is an outlier and shouldn't have been counted."

Solas's lips pinch.  The sight makes Helena kind of salivate for a Warhead.

"Spare me the misdirection," Solas grits out.  "Tell me, if your intentions here are as pure as you claim, then explain to me why you feel the need to write in code?"

Solas jabs a finger toward Helena's journal and she recoils, pressing the pages to her chest.  Solas straightens in surprise.  Helena blinks.

"Wow, I can't believe I made Mr. Sly go direct."  The words slip out on their own, her mind filled only with that odd rush of self-discovery. 

The new tic's a bad tic, but it's new new new.

Solas clenches his fists, locking his jaw.

A part of Helena wants to press further, to see just how much more she can stretch that legendary patience of his before he snaps right in the middle of camp.  She coaxes the tension out of her shoulders, exhaling as they fall.

A mental snap of her fingers instead to right this track.

"It isn't a code."

Helena drops the journal back into her lap and frowns at her now smudged rendition of Cow.

"It's just my native language," Helena explains before Solas can argue, swiping a hand down her chest.  She grimaces at the smear of ink on her skin.

Solas loosens and—ah.  There's that flavor of surprise Helena really likes.

"Common is not your native tongue?"

Helena shrugs, blowing on the page.

Solas stares at her face with the kind of intent more apt for casting spells.  He stares like doing so will yield a real window through which he can crawl inside.

This way is shut.

"I am afraid foreign languages do not fall within my immediate area of expertise," Solas admits with a smile meant to coax.  His hands return to the loose clasp behind his back, but his gaze remains sharp with intent.  "You must be quite gifted with them to move so easily between multiple tongues."

Helena stares at Solas.

He wants her to spill the beans.  Hell, he wants all three layers of that nacho.

"English."

He can have the sour cream.  Helena hates sour cream.

A wrinkle forms between his brows.

"This is English," Helena elaborates, waving the journal at him.

"English," Solas repeats, his lips tasting the word.

Helena nods and stows both her journal and inkwell away.  She stands with an ease borne of practice and keeps her steps sure when she walks around him, keen to relocate while he gnaws on this new bit of information.  The faraway look in his eyes almost draws a smile to her lips.

A vindictive part of her continues to delight in watching him chase his own tail.


	9. The Library

"You're being obstinate."

Helena shrugs a shoulder, the other propped against one of the walls of bookshelves.  The wall extends to some nebulous concept of a ceiling, packed with books of all shapes, sizes, languages, and subjects.  Some contain but a few words, staggered and near scratched through their pages.  Others expand into volumes too numerous for one shelf.  A fair few lack words of any kind, filled instead with ink tears like a series of Rorschach blot tests.

Hundreds of walls, all packed with books, stagger out from this alcove in a procession akin to dominoes.  Helena can read the titles on the spines, feel the smooth leather, even smell that lulling mix of fresh paper and ink.  But, open and accessible though this place seems, Helena knows her senses only brush what He desires.  Seeing the manifestation of this place at all falls into both the realm of deceit and trust, as illusory and honest as his very nature.

The 'He' in question, Miann, remains draped in the armchair across from her.  He wears what Helena once dubbed "Business Armor" with clean cuts and straps and pointed boots.  Only his dark hair falls loose, highlighting the purple tones of his skin and the high cut of his cheek bones.  She can feel the weight of his gaze, even as the direction of his golden eyes angles toward the book in his hands.  The title on the cover fails to reconcile into legible words. 

How subtle.

"I'd say practical."  Helena folds her arms.  "There'll be more supplies where we're going."

Miann drops his book and Helena watches it fly to its home in one of the shelves above him.  He leaves his hands lax where they now dangle over the armrests.  Helena admires the affected nonchalance.

"This is about the rations."

"Only a week or so to go.  I can take it."

"You look sickly," Miann points out, his gaze smoothing over her skin.

"That's just the saturation," Helena counters, gesturing at the storm of green hues around them.  "You should see me in the sunlight.  This piece turns almost copper."  She pulls a lock of hair framing the left side of her face forward, almost crossing her eyes.  "All natur-ale, too."

Miann hums.  Helena drops her hair.

"You want to hear a blonde joke?" Helena asks in one breath, continuing in the next, "What did the blonde say when she opened the box of Cheerios?"

Miann raises an eyebrow.  Helena grins.

"Oh look, donut seeds."

Miann tilts his head.

"What are Cheerios?"

"A breakfast cereal.  Kind of like oats, I guess," Helena explains, making a circle with her index and thumb.  "They look like little rings—hence the 'donut seeds.'"

Helena pretends not to notice the way Miann soaks up her words.  Instead, she trains her gaze on a new book zipping through the rows of shelves with a feeling approaching delight.  It passes out of sight somewhere to her far left.

"I have one," Miann smiles.  "What did the Chantry sister say to the brunette?"

"What?" Helena supplies, quirking her lips.

"Nothing," Miann finishes, tone almost sweet.  "The brunette died of shock from an untreated wound."

Helena huffs, rolling her eyes.

"It isn't untreated and I'm fine."

Miann frowns at Helena's thigh, his gaze solid and intent.

"Letting that mage pump ice magic into your leg suppressed one problem, but in doing so, created two others.  What line did you feed him?" Miann wonders, lifting his eyebrows high.  "Did you tell him it was better to numb the pain, make you more mobile?"

Helena clenches her jaw.

"Could he not heal you himself?" Miann demands, leaning forward.  "Did you even ask?  Is your masochism so severe that you would watch your own leg rot off out of spite?"

"I'm standing, aren't I?" Helena grinds out.

With a flick of Miann's long fingers, the wall of books beside Helena disappears and she falls back, near inches from the floor when he catches her in a dip.

"That was a dick move," Helena huffs, peering up into Miann's face.  "You're slipping."

Miann shakes his head until the features on his face smooth out again, the dark hair framing his cheeks now just long enough to tickle the sides of her neck.  Helena shivers.

"If you don't acquire yourself a healing potion and drink it," Miann stresses, "I'm going to tell Her where you've been hiding."

Helena pales.

"You wouldn't."

Miann leans forward and smiles against her ear.  Helena squeaks and twitches her shoulder up.  She can feel his smile shift into a grin.

"For you, Darling?  Of course I would."

Miann presses a kiss against her cheek and lets go.

...

Helena wakes with a jump and a curse.

An hour later, she downs a healing potion to the chorus of "Shots!  Shots!" in her head.  Or maybe aloud.  Would explain that guy scurrying off.

"Everybuddayy," she exhales with a grimace.

The cloying mixture coats her teeth, reminding her why she substituted a dose of tequila last time.


	10. Let's Get Eggonomical

“You know what I could go for?” The words stumble off Helena’s tongue, slow and at half her usual volume. “Some scrambled eggs. With ketchup.”

“Ka-chup?” Varric repeats, eyeing her. Solas flicks his gaze toward her as well.

Helena hums, long and drawn out. The taste sits heavy on her tongue. She tries to trace back her last meal. Redcliffe, maybe?

“They once called me the Ketchup Queen. Used to put it on everything. Well,” she drawls, “almost everything.”

“The Inquisition’s specialty not doing it for you?” Varric’s lips quirk.

“Can’t say I’m a big fan of mush.” Helena sighs. Her stomach says yes, but her tastebuds say no. “The texture kinda reminds me of vomit, actually.”

Which is why she already has another excuse for not eating lined up when one of Leliana’s agents tries to ply her with a bowl for dinner. Better off going down a more appreciative gullet.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Varric insists.

“That grimace on your face,” Helena points, “belies that statement.”

Varric shrugs.

“What can I say? I’ve had worse.”

“Haven’t we all? Still, seriously don’t know how you guys can stand it.”

Helena rocks her head toward the short hmph on her left.

“Yes?” she drags out. The thought of Alistair brings a near smile to her lips.

“I have nothing to say,” Solas claims, gaze fixed ahead.

Helena rolls her eyes.

“When has that ever been true? C’mon, don’t be a coward,” she goads, just to watch his eyes narrow. “Share with the class.”

Solas tilts his chin up, but still refrains from meeting her gaze.

“I have nothing to say,” he insists, “because I shouldn’t be surprised where your concern lies.”

“Where my concern lies,” Helena repeats, staring at freckle number twelve. “Care to elaborate?”

“You are aware of our limited rations,” and here, his gaze flits to her own, “yet you complain of taste. If your share displeases you so, why take the bowl? There are others who would be grateful for another spoonful.”

Helena blinks. The chatter of the rest of the refugees dulls to mud in her ears. She swallows, but the coat of syrup in her throat fails to dissipate.

“Thanks for eggsplaining,” she murmurs, gaze anchored ahead. The gnome rock stands just a few yards away, near rising from the snow. This time, she opts out of trimming the branches obscuring the lower half of his face. 'Tis beard season, after all. “Let’s not walk on eggshells, here.”

Helena can feel Solas eying her. What color hat would Winklebottom sport this time? Mustard? Boysenberry? Too bad she already traded her yarn to that harpie back in Redcliffe. Next time, she’ll try to Macgyver her wound closed with a strand of her own hair. Third time’s the charm, after all.

“Ease up, Chuckles. Nothing wrong with missing a few creature comforts. Can’t say I don’t miss a good flagon of ale over the watered down shit they’ve been plying us with.” Varric sighs, wistful.  
“Perhaps not,” Solas concedes, “but is it not in poor taste to openly disparage your ration, when others go without?”

“Alright, you’ve got me there.” Varric inclines his head with a grimace.

Helena frowns.

“Who’s been going without?”

Solas raises an eyebrow at her tone, turning toward her.

“Many of the elven servants are given the ration of one to share among many,” Solas states, with that unerring calm of his. “A fair few of them also nurse injuries that go untreated, as the Inquisition continues to allocate most of its supplies to the soldiers.”

Helena thumps her fist against her thigh and grits her teeth against the way it makes her whole leg shake. She knew better.

Solas’s gaze flicks down with the movement.

“What about the Inqu—the Herald.” Helena stares up ahead, watching that spiky hair bob. “She doesn’t seem the type to prioritize the fighters.”

“I doubt the order came from her,” Solas muses. “I imagine the Herald has had other things on her mind.”

“Right,” Helena hisses through her teeth.

Solas eyes her.

“Tactically speaking, the diversion of supplies toward the soldiers is wise, if less compassionate,” Solas points out. “Who else would stand in defense of what remains of the Inquisition should we draw enemy attention?”

Helena stares out at the frozen tundra around them and wonders what would happen if she nudged Nosferatu off a cliff.

“Sometimes you’ve gotta crack a few eggs,” she murmurs.

Varric heaves out a loud sigh from her right. Solas frowns, the meager joy of discussion sliding off his face.

“Is everything a joke to you?” he wonders.

Helena hisses out a laugh, making a show of bending forward in hysterics to obscure her face. When she straightens, all traces of emotion have been smoothed out.

“I like to look at the world sunny-side-up.”

Varric groans. Solas returns his gaze forward with a put-upon sigh.

“C’mon, guys,” Helena chirps in her best customer service voice. “Just take it over-easy.”

“Really?” Varric demands.

...

Helena accepts the proffered bowl of the gray oatmeal-gruel hybrid the Inquisition calls food and plops herself on a patch of dirt. She grits her teeth against the jostle of her leg and waits until Solas’s gaze slides off her from across camp.

A quick dump of her bowl into a much emptier one and she calls it a night.


End file.
